Category Archives: grace

80% written in red …

Quietly, she approached my desk and inquired about her quiz grade. I perused the papers in front of me and found hers.

“You made a 76.”

Her distress was apparent, burying her head in the palms of her hands. Normally, a 76 wouldn’t warrant such a response from this student, but today was different. When I asked her as to the reason behind her tears, she quietly responded, “My momma told me she was going to give me a whippin’ if I got anything lower than an 80.”

A smile formed across my heart; not because I was happy about her grade or her distress but rather because I know her precious momma and just how liberally the word “whippin’” gets thrown around down here in the South. I don’t think her momma would have whipped her for 76, but the threat was enough to spark a reaction in my student’s heart. I leaned over my desk and whispered to her, “What grade would spare you a whippin’?”

“An 80.”

I reached for my red pen, marked out the 76 and replaced it with an 80. Our eyes locked, and we shared a tender moment as grace rained down to replace shame. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that kind of joy – being able to erase what’s earned and, instead, to replace it with what’s free. I was reminded, once again, of the trust I’ve been given this year—to live my life wide-open before these young lives and to set the stage for, what I hope to be, futures lived with Jesus and with a rich understanding about his love, grace, and unmerited favor.

This moment arrives to my heart, too, as fresh grace—a red pen held in the hand of the Master Teacher who is willing to erase my whippin’ and, instead, grant me my reprieve. When my dignity (and my behind) is held in the hands of the Master, I can always count on grace. Not that I press the issue of my “76s”, serve up my “less” when I could do better; that would cheapen the gift. But on those days when a 76 is all I have to give, well, I can trust my Teacher to cover the rest of it, be it four points or more.

I don’t know if my student will remember this day in years to come, but I hope that she does … not for my sake but for hers. That somewhere down the road when she’s tempted to think that her good isn’t good enough (that a whippin’s coming because she’s failed to meet some standard) she’ll think upon today and remember that she’s worth more than what she deserves.

She’s worth God’s Son – a cross, some nails, a grave, and all hell – all because he loves her and has called her enough.

The red pen is in his hands, and he has changed her grade. He’s changed mine as well.

Grace. It looks good in red. It feels even better. As always …

Peace (and grace … and freely flowing red pens) for the journey,

Feeding Time

“Jesus said, ‘Have the people sit down.’ There was plenty of grass in that place, and the men sat down, about five thousand of them.” –John 6:10

Plenty of grass.

Of all the many facets that make up the miracle known as the “Feeding of the 5000” – this mention of grass is the one upon which my heart lingers. In days past, I’ve spent most of my time focusing on the other (some would say more important) components of the story—the boy and his surrender of loaves and fishes, the size of the crowd, the multiplication of sustenance, the distribution therein, and the collection of leftovers. Each one of them is a miracle framed within the bigger picture. I suppose there were other miracles that day … 5000+ homes represented, lives changed, stories rewritten … how could there not be?

Wherever Jesus walks, whomever Jesus touches, this is the stuff of miracles.

But for me, today, it’s the green grass and the abundance therein that captures my attention (I’m thankful for Mark’s Gospel which includes the detail of greenness.). Like the 5000 of so long ago, I, too, follow Jesus to the hillside—a remote region outside the buzz of the city—in hopes of a miracle for myself. Not a big one as miracles go. Nothing front page worthy. Just a little green grass that belongs to me and a little time with Jesus. To hear his voice and to be fed by his hand, well, this is the miracle that I’m interested in.

In a life that is often too busy, too distracted, too worn out from worry, and too willing to sit down in pastures less green and more polluted, it is difficult to follow the Shepherd’s lead to the other side of the lake, much less make the climb to greener pastures. Following after Jesus requires deep devotion—a strong resolve to be where he is and an even stronger follow-through to get there … to stay there until the soul’s hunger is satisfied in his meadows of lush abundance.

Oh the meadow, rich and green,
It waits for me beyond this scene,
That blocks my view and crowds my heart,
That stifles me from taking part …

In grace abundant from Your hand,
Loaves and fishes at Your command;
Given freely in this place,
This patch of green, this gift of space.

To call my own, my time with Thee,
A sacred spot reserved for me;
To stretch my limbs, to rest my soul,
To find the peace that makes me whole.

I see it there, just up the hill,
A tiny dot of verdant thrill;
Some holy ground within heart’s reach,
It won’t be long now, I’m at the beach.

I’ll make the climb, I’ll do my part;
You’ll do the rest, it’s in your heart.
To give me best, to fill my ache,
My longed-for miracle beside the lake.

From long ago to moments now,
Your grass still sways in humble bow;
To receive those pilgrims weary-worn,
To nurture aches, to bind what’s torn.

Indeed the meadow, rich and green!
It waits for all beyond this scene.
So make the choice, do the climb;
Lift up your eyes, it’s feeding time.  {f. elaine olsen, 2-21-15, all rights reserved.}

It’s feeding time, friends. I’ll meet you on the hillside and, together, we’ll rest and we’ll dine in holy measure from the Father’s hand. As always …

Peace for the journey,

from doing to breathing and the grace in between

“When the two disciples heard him say this, they followed Jesus. Turning around, Jesus saw them following and asked, ‘What do you want?’” –John 1:37-38

As of late, my pen has been silent. There hasn’t been room enough in my life for words.

Just doing. Mostly, just doing my job. It consumes my waking hours, which is most of them … all twenty-four of them. Whether I’m upright or horizontal, I’m thinking about my fourteen fourth-graders. I am exhausted. A life of perpetual doing doesn’t always leave room enough for breathing. Too much doing and the spirit goes dry. Life without breath feels like death to a soul, and for the past few weeks, I’ve been slowly suffocating.

And crying. And praying. And asking God through choke-filled sobs for this doing to start making sense, even one little bit.

My family’s been praying too. On Thursday night, Billy and the kids huddled together upstairs on my behalf and sent God their requests in sacred whispers. They just wanted me to find the air that I so desperately needed … for a fresh wind of the Spirit to blow over me.

On Friday God answered their quiet whispers as loudly as he could.

Every school day begins with a Bible lesson (one of the great privileges of teaching at a Christian school). I consider this to be the best part of our day together. I’m in my element when I’m telling God’s story to others. In the first half of the year, we covered Genesis, the Christmas story, and have recently begun to talk about Jesus’ early, ministry years. This week’s focus has been on those first disciples who took those first steps toward following Jesus. In particular, we’ve zeroed in on the question that Jesus asked of Andrew and John at their initial meeting:

“What do you want?” or as the King James’ version states, “What seek ye?”.

I asked my students to consider that question, to have those ancient words jump off the pages of holy writ and to imagine God asking the same question of them.

“What do you want, fourth graders? What seek ye?”

In our moments of morning contemplation, I could see that my students were thinking – that just maybe this question was meant also for them and not simply for those disciples in those early days of kingdom expansion. This was a good way to start the day; regardless of any drama that might follow, a solid foundation had been laid.

Fast forward a few hours. The students were finishing up a reading quiz when one of them approached my desk and asked if she could speak to me in the hallway. Her distress was apparent, and I immediately took her aside to assess the situation. We’d barely made it to the hallway before the tears began to collect in her sweet brown eyes. Quietly, tenderly, and most assuredly, this precious young girl added words to the moment. In doing so, she’s added a thousand more words to my heart.

“Mrs. Olsen, I need God.”

Let that settle in on you, friends. Just be with us there in that moment. Don’t rush past it. Moments like these should be held up to the light and cradled … celebrated in the heart. Really, could there be a more worthy, purer confession than this?

In the minutes that followed her disclosure, we sat together in the hallway where we talked about her need and about our God. And then as smoothly and as naturally as breathing, we prayed together and the kingdom of God expanded … just one little bit. For everything that hasn’t made sense in these past five months of doing my job, Friday’s one thing made perfect sense, and I am stunned by such privilege.

Every tear I have cried; every prayer I have prayed. Every word I have spoken; every plan I have made. If this one little bit is the sum total reason for God calling me out of my comfort zone and pushing me into the middle of discomfort, then this is enough fresh air to keep me breathing in the season to come.

Tonight I hear the Father asking me a familiar question, the one he asked his first disciples 2000 years ago and the one I asked my students earlier in the week:

“What do you want, Elaine? What seek ye?”

My response?

“This, Father. Just this.”

How beautiful this grace that is sufficient and all-powerful. It reaches past and beyond my weakness and perfects the imperfect. One little bit … one little heart at a time.

On Friday, I had the joy of welcoming a new child into God’s family. I’m so glad that she has Him and that He has her. She doesn’t know it yet, but her best days are ahead of her. With Jesus, her best days are yet to be. The multiplication tables and helping-verb lists she’s mastered in the 4th grade may not be remembered in years to come. But this one little moment?

Well, it will never be forgotten. It’s etched into eternity. This is forever.

Peace for the journey, sweet girl. God is with you. God is for you. God loves you.

I am too – with you, for your, love you.
{aka – Mrs. Olsen}

A Wedding Dance with Redemption . . .

 

My eldest son got married two weeks ago. It was a grand affair. Quaint. Intimate. On a mountain and in the company of family and friends. I thought a lot about my son that day while sitting next to his father in our designated, front pew. We had the best seat in the house, but then again, in sharing life with this extraordinary twenty-five-year-old man we call “son”, we’ve always had the best seat in the house. What a privilege to watch him grow over the years and to witness him standing before his bride and speaking his oath to love her for the rest of his earthly days. It’s a day I won’t forget, one that sows deeply into the soil of my heart and that heralds a grand “hallelujah” for the grace that has passed ahead, within, and behind us, low these many years.

It takes a lot of grace to grow a boy into a man. Our story is no exception. In fact, our story begs for grace, has relied upon grace to get us to this season in our lives – a day when two parents, who once made those same sacred vows to one another only later to break them, were able to sit side-by-side and celebrate the child born out of their love. You can imagine the baggage that I carried into that chapel two weeks ago, the internal wrestlings that were begging to take the stage. But it wasn’t a day for baggage and wrestlings. It was a day for grace and for making peace with a past that I cannot change but, instead, can honor for the fruit that has blossomed despite my disobedience.  

This was and continues to be my wedding dance with redemption, when the past works for me instead of against me. When the glass is less dim and more transparent. When I can see clearly through the brokenness to gather up some wholeness. When the Groom extends his hand and his heart in my direction and repeats the oath he spoke to me in the past saying:

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving kindness.

I will build you up again and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel.

Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful.

Again you will plant vineyards on the hills of Samaria; the farmers will plant them and enjoy their fruit.” (Jeremiah 31:3-5)

This is my “again” . . . again – one of the many agains I have known because of the mercy-filled, extended hand of my Groom, Jesus Christ. His love is timeless, knows no boundaries, and never tires of the grace-dance. Instead, his love is ready.

Ready to draw me in.

Ready to rebuild me.  

Ready to re-teach me the sacred melody.

Ready to sow within me the seeds of eternity.

Christ’s love is ready, and Christ’s love is enough to carry any broken and burdened soul through to present wholeness. He loves his bride, and his oath is his word. No sin and no shame are a match for his strong affection and sacred affirmation. Love wins the day, and the Groom takes his Bride.

A wedding dance with redemption. The grace-dance with the Redeemer. My dance. Your dance. God’s dance.

Won’t you take hold of his hands, friends, and take hold of your tambourines? The music’s been cued. The wine’s been poured. And the Groom has given you his word . . .  

This is for forever.

Hallelujah! Amen. So be it. As always . . .

 

Peace for the journey,

worn out to wearable . . .

“There’s something in there, Elaine. I’m not quite sure what ‘it’ is, but there’s something in there.”

So says my artist friend while staring at a pile of scraps in her attic sanctuary. To the casual onlooker, those scraps don’t look like much. Just a pile of colorful leftovers—cast-offs from somebody’s closet and the thrift store down the road. I cannot see what she sees on the front side of her creating. I can only be thankful for her visioning that leads to a finished product that is both beautiful and functional.

A recycled masterpiece!

In wearing her treasures across my body, I carry history into the present. Threads of yesterday are delicately woven into a tapestry that tells a story. My story.

Scraps to salvaged. Parts to whole. Old to new. Worn out to wearable.

Yes, this is my story. And all it took was the visioning of the Artist to see what I couldn’t see. To imagine what I couldn’t imagine. To pause before the scrap heap and to say,

“There’s something in there. I’m not quite sure what ‘it’ is, but there’s something in there.”

A functioning something. A beautiful something. A recycled masterpiece fashioned by the Master, pieced and woven tightly together by threads of sacred love. History into the present . . . a lot of times past that count toward tomorrow.

So here I am – a garment comprised of yesterday’s scraps, sewn up with a lot of grace-splashes. And it works. I work because I am his work. There simply isn’t any other reasonable explanation for how this is all turning out so well – my life.

How grateful I am for the quiet pauses in a day that lend themselves to creativity. To climb the attic stairs and to imagine through to the other side of the scrap heap. To house (even if just a little) the creative pulse of the Creator within me. To have the light coming through the window to crystallize and clarify the blueprint. To remind me when I so often forget that …

“There’s something in there.”

There is something in there, friends. A holy something. A God something. Whether you’re staring at a scrap pile in the mirror today or whether your work is on the table awaiting a hem line, there’s something in there. The Artist has his eyes on you, and he’s working with the end product in mind.

What you’ve yet to see, he has already seen. What you cannot imagine, he has already imagined. His visioning is holier than yours and his patience enduring. The word on the street is you’re going to be a masterpiece. In the Master’s hands, how could you be anything but? Trust him with and for the finishing details. Give him your scraps and watch him create.

Grace looks beautiful on you, friends. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

PS: If you’d like to learn more about the artist, Lisa Dixon, and how you might secure one of her valuable treasures, please visit her Etsy sight by clicking here . What’s your favorite item? Let me know in a comment, and I’ll enter your name into a drawing to win a secret treasure from her stash. You can also find Lisa on facebook by clicking here.

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